I'm a woman who has schizophrenia. In this blog I discuss my struggles with my job and finishing my B.A. in Creative Writing. I work for a mental health consumer-driven, consumer run self-help organization.

August 10, 2004

New Poetry

She who licks her lips knows the taste of her lover's desire.
Instead of a spoon she uses her feet to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
She is round and rosey; he is the whisper of her muse.
He thinks "this is the dawn of the first goddess".
She knows that beauty will save the world; maybe this is all an absurd fairy tale.
She thinks "you are like a feather duster when what I need is a brick."
He moans:
Every song you sing every tale you tell has got a river in it.
They are like harpoons arcing in hunger.

We are dreaming beings
walking the line between hope and despair
skilled at the art of burning bridges.
This must be the dark side of the rainbow
because these thoughts lie too deep for tears.
The artist in the ambulance
with the history of outrage
says that there is a war against the weak
and to be reminded of the virtue of the small.

Listening

I open my balcony door
and I hear sounds of the city.
This is paradise:
The San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles.
I hear birds sweetly singing: nature is nearby,
an ice cream truck playing Brahms Lullaby: children are nearby
A fire truck: help is nearby.
A car alarm goes off, children chatter, a puppy barks, a jet flies overhead, a car starts with a squeek, the sun is shining, a whooperil coos its reassuring song
reminiscent of a Texas farm, the palm fronds rustle in a warm breeze.